


Christmas Cards

by ProlixInSpace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autumn, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, New Years, Snow, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, Stargazing, Wings, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlixInSpace/pseuds/ProlixInSpace
Summary: A series of 20 drabbles, all of which exist in a canon-verse of no year in particular, in which Dean and Cas finally got together shortly after Thanksgiving, and the timeline stretches from early December through to New Year's. They can all be read on their own but also together.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Christmas Cards

**Author's Note:**

> These little baby fics were sent one by one in Holiday cards to everyone who signed up for the Profound Bond Card Exchange, and since we are now at Christmas Proper, I am posting all of them so that everyone who received one can see what happened before and after the one they received, and so that those who were not part of the exchange can also enjoy some fluffy holiday spirit.

**One: Fallen Leaves**

  
The cold had grown bitter, and the small stand of trees was skeletal and dark against the sky. It was only early afternoon, but the sun was already going down early. The smell of snow was on the air, even if it hadn’t quite begun yet to fall. The wind flapped at Castiel’s coat, and ruffled briskly through the black feathers at his back. 

He didn’t used to get impatient this way -- humanity had clearly rubbed off on him just a tad. At last, Dean jogged up the hill, brown and orange leaves crunching beneath his boots. 

“You could… just have...” Dean said, bent over and leaning on his knees, catching his breath. “Taken the car with me, like a normal person.”

Castiel spread his wings to both sides in a stretch, and then snapped them back behind him. “If you couldn’t drive your car for several years and then got it back again, what would  _ you  _ do?”

“Touche,” said Dean, grinning a little as his gaze kept wandering up and past Castiel’s shoulders. “Ready to go?” 

“I’ve  _ been _ ready,” Castiel teased dryly.

“Shut up,” Dean said, but he was laughing at the same time, and he reached out and gave Castiel’s hand a quick squeeze as they descended into the woods.

* * *

**Two: A Gift Idea**

Dean hadn’t been in a shopping mall in a solid couple decades at least. Crowded, brightly lit, and smelling of perfume and floorwax, it was pretty much the opposite of  _ places Dean Winchester goes. _ Sam seemed a bit more at ease -- a side-effect of spending too much time in California, most likely.

“It’s just,” Dean agonized, “You know me. I’m not good at the gift thing  _ normally,  _ and what the hell do you get for a guy who doesn’t  _ need  _ anything?”

Dean stopped so suddenly that Sam got a solid three steps ahead before he realized what was happening.

“Dean?” Sam asked, mild alarm on his face.

“I’ve got it.”

Cas didn’t need  _ any  _ of this crap. Dean led Sam through the packed crowd past the lit-up displays of trees and snowmen and reindeer to their destination:

“A print shop?” Sam was bewildered.

“Trust me. Gimme your phone.”

It took less than thirty minutes in total. The selfie had been Sam’s request (and Sam’s long arms) and it was one of very few existing photos of the three of them all together. It looked perfect in the simple wooden frame.

_ For your room,  _ Dean scribbled on the back,  _ or mine if you keep staying there, or wherever, because this is your home, too, no matter what.  _

* * *

**Three: Winter Solstice**

It was barely five PM when the sun started going down, and the almanac said it wouldn’t be up the next day until basically eight. This was an unstable night for the supernatural, with numerous creatures growing in power or taking advantage of the longest dark. 

This year, instead of going  _ anywhere,  _ both Winchester brothers were manning a kind-of hunters’ switchboard to keep tabs on everyone who was out in the cold, do research, support fake IDs, and anything else that needed doing in a pinch.

With his wings back, Castiel could take flight occasionally, but in the downtime between urgent rescues, he had another task. 

Dean and Sam were busy in the library -- they didn’t notice him taking over the stove with his pot of hard cider and wine, simmered with oranges, cranberries, and cinnamon. 

“Wassail,” said Castiel, in response to the two curious looks that he got when he brought in the steaming mugs.

“Oh! The solstice thing!” Sam understood immediately and took his mug with warm thanks. 

Dean was more cautious. After he took his first sip, though, he reached out and grabbed Cas’ hand and pulled him off balance, making him bend into a quick, grateful kiss. 

“You  _ will  _ show me how to make that,” said Dean. 

Castiel looked forward to it. 

* * *

**Four: Decoration**

It started with tinsel.

Sam had picked it up at a dollar store on some unknown day and decided to wrap it in glittering spirals around the iron bannister leading down from the bunker’s front door into the war room. 

He didn’t say anything about it, it was just  _ there. _

Then one day Castiel caught Dean walking in with a poinsettia and placing it nonchalantly on the map table, as though it were any other object.

Red ribbons appeared on the library chairs one morning -- Sam’s doing, clearly, as only he was awake early enough -- and a few days later, green and red fake LED candles in little glass jars could be found on the tables.

Things only escalated after that, with the both of them trying to decorate in secret, as though they both wanted the place festive but neither were willing to admit it. 

Castiel caught Dean hanging strands of Christmas lights down the hall at about 2 AM. He had to say something, so he said, “What are you doing?”

“Uh--” Dean sounded more like he’d been caught stealing than decorating. He looked at the lights, and then back at Castiel, and shrugged.

Without a word, Castiel picked up the other end of the lights, and they worked together until they met in the middle. 

* * *

**Five: First Flakes**

Outside the diner, the sky was low and pale, a wall of heavy clouds coiled tight. 

“I guess you could say this is technically our first date,” Dean mused, his mouth full of hamburger. 

They hadn’t gone far -- just a few hours out, to rescue another hunter who’d gotten in over his head. Castiel had ended it easily almost the moment he stepped in. He hadn’t really considered the potential mess of his method, though.

“I’m not an expert on dates, but my understanding is that one doesn’t customarily wear bloodstained clothing.” Castiel looked down with distaste at the purplish-blue spots spattered across the side of his coat.

“Nah, you’re fine. If it was  _ red  _ blood that’d be one thing, but you just look like you had a painting accident or -- hey, look!” Dean pointed out the window. 

Outside, the snow had begun. Fat, powdery flakes drifted aimlessly in the general direction of the ground, taking many detours on the way. It was cold enough that they’d probably stick and pile up, and in a few hours, the whole region would sparkle. There was something special in seeing it begin. 

While his attention was on the snow, Dean slid one hand across the table to where Castiel’s rested idle, and wrapped his own around it. 

* * *

**Six: Baking**

“Why don’t you let Cas pick?” Sam said, before he vanished down the hall. 

Dean had clearly gotten into the sort of mood that Castiel recognized as  _ nesting,  _ currently manifesting as a fixation with food preparation. This, he knew, was common for humans at this time of year, even without explicit traditions. Something deep in their makeup feared the winter ahead, perhaps, making them anxious to prepare for it. 

“Fine,” Dean said, leaning on the island counter, still in the grip of indecision . He looked up to where Castiel hovered in the doorway. “Cas? Any thoughts?”

“Today is the solstice,” said Castiel. “I remember the Celts used to bake shortbread and cut it into the shape of the sun. They ate it with Whipkull.”

“With--?”

“Like eggnog.”

Dean frowned, mouth open for a moment, and then shrugged. “Least it’s easy. Grab the butter?”

He asked so easily, as though they did this every day. Before long, Cas had shed his coat and jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows as he helped Dean to mix the crumbly dough and press it into round cake pans. 

The end result tasted like little more than a patchwork of sucrose, triglycerides, and amylopectin, but Dean enjoyed it, he hoped they’d bake together again, regardless.

* * *

**Seven: Snowball Fight**

Dean started it.

Castiel had his hand on the bunker door when the clump of damp, cold powder hit the back of his head and stuck to his hair, melting onto his neck. When he turned around, Dean was just past the top of the concrete steps, bent over laughing. 

Years ago, he might not have known what to do in this situation, but for once, Metatron’s culture-dump came in handy. Castiel crouched to where the snow started, just below his knees, and scooped it into his bare, cupped hand before giving it a pat into a ball and launching it in Dean’s direction.

It missed by a hair -- Dean saw it coming and his reflexes had been honed by a lifetime of dodging more dangerous things than snow -- but the second one got him square in the cheek. That only got him laughing harder. 

“That all you got?” Dean taunted, backing into the pristine, unplowed road. 

The resulting snowball fight was one for the ages. 

When they were both panting and red-nosed, Dean put his hands up in surrender and got in close for an almost innocent kiss.

And in the moment of distraction, Castiel grinned against his lips and shoved a wad of snow down the back of his shirt. 

* * *

**Eight: Warming Up** **  
** **  
** **  
** They might have stayed out in the snow just a touch too long. Castiel was about to heal Dean’s frozen fingertips and wind-chapped face, but for Dean ducking out of the way of the two fingers headed for his forehead. 

“Don’t have to do everything the easy way,” Dean protested.

“You practically got frostbite,” reasoned Castiel. 

“And there is a time-honored way to deal with that,” said Dean. 

He shed his dripping, snow-covered layers of clothes at the bottom of the stairs until he was down to his t-shirt and jeans, but the cuffs were still wet.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” said Dean “Stay here.”

Dean vanished down the hallway, leaving Castiel standing in the melted snow-puddle until he came back wearing flannel pants instead. Over his arm was draped a second pair in a different shade of plaid, along with a black t-shirt. Dean tossed them, and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen. 

Once he was properly pajama-clad (and he had to admit, they were  _ very  _ soft) he padded into the kitchen after Dean, who pushed a mug across the counter. It took a moment, but after mentally combining the volatile organic compounds, he realized the smell was cocoa. 

Through a haze of steam, Dean explained,  _ “This  _ is how you warm up after a snowball fight.”

* * *

**Nine: Snow Day**

****   
“Is Sam alright?” Castiel asked when Dean hung up the phone.

“He’s fine, he’s just coming up empty. I don’t even think it’s a case, but--” Dean shrugged. “Long as he doesn’t get stuck in the storm, he can do what he wants. Meantime, I gotta get  _ you  _ caught up.”

“Caught--”

“Pop quiz,” said Dean, sipping at the hot spiked cider in his coffee mug. “What’s the best Christmas movie?”

“I--” Castiel frowned. He could  _ name  _ quite a few Christmas movies, thanks to Metatron’s influence, and recite their plots and principal actors, but he had no frame of reference for quality.

“Wrong,” Dean said, before Castiel even answered. “It’s Die Hard.”

“That’s an... action movie,” Castiel pointed out. It was not even on the list that Castiel had mentally generated.

Dean ticked off reasons on his fingers. “It takes place on Christmas, features a weary traveller who can’t catch a break, and it’s all about family, and second chances!”

Suddenly, Castiel understood both the holiday association, and Dean’s affection for the film. He’d never say it aloud, but Castiel took Dean’s movie screenings for what they were: a desire to be close, to be  _ known _ , without reliance on words --  _ they _ could be as treacherous as black ice. 

“Lead the way,” Castiel said. 

* * *

**Ten: Snowed In** **  
  
**

Underground, with artificial lighting and no windows, it was easy to feel as though there was nothing outside the bunker at all. Thanks to the warding, even Castiel sometimes felt as though it was a world unto itself.

It took a text from Sam (who’d just left a few hours before and couldn’t be more than a hundred or so miles out) to raise the alarm that something was amiss. 

_ Look outside, if you haven’t already. _

The moment Dean began to open the door they both regretted it. The soft, fat snowflakes of the previous day had turned into a blustering white-out that made the landscape a glittering alien desert under two feet of powder, and the storm itself tried to invade the moment the door was opened. 

Together, they braced to shut it again. Dean was the first to speak. 

“Guess we’re uh… staying in, huh?”

Underground, with artificial lighting and no windows, there was no reason to do anything differently just because of the storm, but Dean was insistent that this meant it was time for a break from research in favor of a movie -- and not in the recliners, it turned out, but under the same blanket, in Dean’s room, propped up on a pile of pillows.

Suddenly a blizzard seemed like a perfectly lovely thing indeed.

* * *

**Eleven: Blackout** **  
** **  
**

The blizzard had knocked out the power to three hundred homes, according to the serious voice on the radio. Whatever was powering the bunker, it was apparently sensitive to the same forces of nature, because the lights had gone out, and the equally-mysterious backup generator had gone too. 

Dean texted Sam to let him know -- _snowed in, no power, don’t hurry back_ and Sam just replied with a bunch of laughing emojis. 

“He doesn’t seem too worried,” said Castiel.

“‘Cause there’s nothing to worry about. Dude, I sleep in my  _ car  _ on a regular basis. This is nothing. And besides, you know what this means…”

“No, I--”

He vanished into the pantry, leaving Castiel frowning in confusion, and came back with his arms full: marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate, and a squat little can of Sterno. 

“I don’t--”

“Blackout s’mores!” Dean said, as though it were obvious. “It’s tradition! As much as we really have any traditions, anyway.”

In the end, the resulting confection tasted as much like molecules as anything else, but the  _ process -- _ sitting close with Dean over the little flaming tin for both warmth and marshmallow-roasting -- made Castiel want to preserve the tradition forever.  **  
**

* * *

**Twelve: The Finch** ****

Dean’s joke had been that Sam’s moose-size had warped his sense of proportion. Truly, that was the only explanation for the sheer size of the wreath he’d chosen. Sam’s joke had been buying the wreath in the first place, a reminder of a pine-scented job they’d apparently worked long ago, or so the story went.

They hung it above the door, covering the black stain on the cement.

Castiel and Dean arrived back from their overnight hunt to a frosty daybreak. The ice on the grass glittered pinkish in the dawn light -- the world itself seemed like a held breath as the day tried to overtake the night. 

Something was different about the wreath, though. As Castiel approached, the splotch of scratchy brown amid the green pine needles and the big red bow resolved into a cup-shaped collection of twigs and dried grasses -- a nest.

Inside was a little brown and gray house-finch, her feathers fluffed up against the cold.

“Dean, look--” Castiel indicated.

“What--oh. Huh. Guess we got our own resident carolers, then.”

Nothing more was said on the matter. If Castiel caught Dean  _ accidentally  _ dropping crumbs from his pocket on the way in and out the door after that, he knew better than to speak of it. 

* * *

**Thirteen: Stargazing**

“Everything okay?” Dean asked, emerging from the ladder onto the roof of the bunker. “Little unnerving seeing you like that.”

Night had only just fallen, the last of twilight having slipped away like a tired guest at a party only a few minutes before. Castiel was laid out on his back, hands clasped on his chest and black wings stretched out flat against the concrete, his feathers ruffling lightly in the driving winter wind. 

“Dean, yes, of course,” Castiel addressed, glancing his way only for a moment before looking back up at the sky. “I’m looking at the stars. It’s a perfectly clear night.”

“You want company?” And then, when Castiel nodded slightly, he said, “How should I--I mean, can I--”

A gravelly little laugh escaped Castiel and was swallowed by the wind. “Dean, I have gone into countless battles with my wings. They aren’t glass.”

“Right,” Dean said, though there was still some trepidation in the way he stepped around them and settled in alongside Castiel. The feathers protected him from the cold of the building material, and he shuffled over until they were shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. “I guess you can probably see a lot more of that than I can, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered.

“So,” Dean invited, “Tell me about the stars.”   


* * *

**Fourteen: Wrapping**

Castiel had seen the paper, and the finished product and nothing in between, and his attempt to mimic it had gone about as poorly as could be expected.

Dean wandered into the library just in time to see Castiel disassembling his first try. He sidled up in a way that clearly said he planned to show Castiel how it was done -- maybe from pity, or to show off, or as an excuse to stand close and touch hands (he didn’t need excuses anymore, but Castiel supposed old habits died hard.)    
  
“I was going to look up a youtube tutorial,” Castiel protested weakly. 

“Well now you don’t need to,” Dean answered. “First thing, you need way more paper--” 

Dean rolled out a length, plaid-side-down. The moment the scissors hit it, they slid through smoothly, which was impressive on its own. Castiel watched the deft work of his hands as he got it started, folding one side over the other and securing it with tape. 

“Now you just push down on the paper here and here--” He guided, “and fold those points. You do the other side.”

Success.

Dean had some things to wrap of his own, and he only left Castiel’s side long enough to retrieve it all. The two of them did the remainder of the work together.    
  


* * *

**Fifteen: Mistletoe**

“Hey Cas!?” Dean shouted from the kitchen down the hallway. There was unavoidable mirth in his voice when he said “Could use a hand here!”

Castiel put his book on the night table. He was clearly trying to make it sound urgent, with the goal of some kind of lighthearted deception, but his tone gave him away. There was likely no rush. 

Then again, one couldn’t be too careful, so while he didn’t exactly  _ sprint,  _ he didn’t waste time either. 

When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he understood what was happening and a huff of air -- a proto-laugh of sorts -- bubbled up and escaped. 

“I see,” he said. 

It wasn’t exactly the subtlest of scenes: There was Dean, between stove and kitchen island, with a spatula in his hand. Overhead, on a hook meant for pots and pans, was a sprig of mistletoe, and as if the point wasn’t entirely clear already, he was also wearing an apron decorated with images of the plant in the shape of the words: KISS THE COOK 

And well, Heaven may have considered Castiel unreliable when it came to doing what he was told, but these were instructions that he had no trouble at all in following.

* * *

**Sixteen: A Gift for Dean**

Castiel handed off his gift for Dean first. 

Dean unwrapped it with a flourish, exposing the shallow white cardboard box. He extricated the pile of lightly-distressed leather, pleased from the start, but delighted when he lifted it up and realized what it was. 

“Cas, you--”

“I... know you missed your old jacket,” Castiel explained. “It’s not exactly the same, but if you couldn’t have that one back, I thought you should have a _ new  _ one, yours from the start, to make new memories in. You can… try it on, if you want.”

“That was  _ years  _ ago that I… geez.” He was almost awed as he slid it on over his shoulders. “It’s perfect.” 

For a microsecond, Dean frowned, and Castiel knew he had felt the spot above his ribs that didn’t quite bend the same as the rest. Dean reached into the inside pocket and his face registered when his fingers registered what was hidden there. 

“Cas, is this _ your _ \--”

Castiel coughed. “Yes. It isn’t only sentimental, it serves a protective purpose as well, though I’m not sure of limits so this is _ not  _ an excuse to be careless.”

Dean left the feather where it was. “Well,” he said with a half-grin, “Good incentive not to lose this one, then.”   


* * *

**Seventeen: A Gift for Cas**

Once Dean had opened his gift, it was Castiel’s turn -- he was glad that it went this way, because now that he knew Dean enjoyed his gift, he could relax and open his own.

The box itself was longer than it was wide or tall, and Castiel peeled the tape away meticulously, careful not to damage the paper more than he had to. He’d already had it explained to him that this wasn’t necessary, but it seemed right nevertheless. 

Inside the paper was a shoebox, but the weight was wrong for shoes. He glanced up to find Dean burying a smirk, which meant his confusion must have been obvious. 

Castiel lifted off the cardboard lid to find two items:

Firstly, a mixtape. The label read,  _ MERRY CHRISTMAS YA FILTHY ANIMAL. _

And secondly, a photo, not yet placed in its corresponding wooden frame. 

Castiel remembered when it was taken: Sam had decided to out of the blue to get a picture of the three of them. He was in the back of it, with Dean in the front smiling loosely and Castiel glaring into the lens. 

He picked up and turned it over to find out why it was loose -- Dean hadn’t wanted him to miss the short note on the back. 

“Dean--” Castiel looked up, half misty-eyed. 

Dean cut him off to say, “Yeah, well, I mean it.”    
  


* * *

**Eighteen: The Coffee Run**

At first, Dean had behaved as though it was a true disaster that they’d run unexpectedly out coffee, but when Castiel offered to accompany him on the re-supply trip, his mood took a noticeable turn for the better.

The morning was cloudless, the sun cold and sharp in its light just after rising, and the air smelled like dry static. Outside, the road had been plowed, thank goodness, but everything else was covered in a thick sheet of white glitter that concealed the world. 

Castiel’s breath came out in little white puffs until the engine got hot enough to warm the inside of the car. He was focused on the rolling of the pale landscape outside when he felt Dean’s gloved hand rest on his own bare one. 

He glanced over, and committed yet another expression to an eternal memory. 

They swept through the grocery store with ruthless efficiency, Dean disappearing down another aisle as he left Castiel to choose the coffee (that being the only thing he could be counted on to consume.)

When they checked out, Castiel noticed several of Sam’s favorites on the belt too, in addition to the usual items.

“Vegetables? You’re not usually so benevolent before noon,” Castiel joked. 

Dean didn’t take his eyes off Castiel when he said, “Just that kind of day.”

* * *

**Nineteen: Resolutions**

“I don’t know,” Dean griped, “what’s the point?”

“It’s a New Year’s resolution. What’s the point of  _ not  _ doing it?” Sam answered.

Dean shrugged. “It’s not like I’m gonna go to the gym, or take up calligraphy, or something.”

“You managed last year’s,” Sam said, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Don’t--”

“You made a resolution last year?” Castiel frowned. He hadn’t been present for the discussion last year. 

“Last year he made a resolution to tell  _ you _ how he felt,” Sam revealed, laughing now. “And it only took until what, November?”

Dean’s cheeks went pink. “Yeah, well, I did it, so I should get a year off.”

“I’ll make one,” Castiel said. And then, when all eyes were on him: “I want to expand my wardrobe.”

“What?” Dean sat up, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“I’ve come to realize that… I may not be human, but this body is still mine now, and I should more wholeheartedly treat it as such. I want to wear things that I’ve chosen, that belong to me.”

“Damn right!” Sam said. “Now  _ that’s  _ a resolution.”

“Alright,” Dean said amiably, shooting Castiel a look warm enough to melt the snow outside. “Then I guess I’ll resolve to take Cas shopping.”

They could all drink to that.    


* * *

**Twenty: The New Year**

The first morning of the new year was cold enough to put a strain the bunker’s heating system.. Castiel, not needing sleep, had bid Sam a good-morning-see-you-later when he’d passed through the library on the way to his first jog of the new year, and Dean wandered out of his room about half an hour after. 

“Morning,” said Dean, “Happy New Year. I mean, we said that last night after midnight, but… now it’s  _ really _ morning, so…”

“I started coffee,” Castiel said, looking up from his book.

“The benefits of a boyfriend who doesn’t sleep,” Dean mused, making a beeline for the coffee machine. From the kitchen, he shouted, “Want me to bring you a cup?”

Instead of answering, Castiel followed Dean into the kitchen to share the coffee with him there. The smell was woody and sweet, and Dean poured Cas’ portion into the new mug Sam had got him for Christmas, with the wing-shaped handle. 

“Doesn’t feel that much different from yesterday, does it?” Dean mused from barely a foot away as he breathed in the steam. (The direction of the relationship may have been new, but the proximity was very much not.)

“The past few weeks have been… comforting. Peaceful. If today is like yesterday, I would count that as a positive,” Castiel said. 

To that, Dean could only agree.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! (And even if you don't celebrate any particular thing, I hope you have a lovely end of year.)


End file.
